


The Prodigal Warlock

by manypastfrustrations



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Transphobia, Mother-Son Relationship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Outsider, Post-Canon, Trans Character, over-use of work skins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22770841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manypastfrustrations/pseuds/manypastfrustrations
Summary: Warlock took a step backwards as he recognised who he was looking at. It was Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis, his family’s staff from years ago. But they looked different. Francis looked less, well, tufty, and less ruddy, and his teeth were more normal than Warlock remembered. And Nanny, well.Well.Nanny looked like a man.A fashionable man, dressed a little like an ageing rocker.On a trip to London with his friends, sixteen-year-old Warlock Dowling comes across an old bookshop that he is inexplicably drawn to, and is more than surprised to find his old nanny and gardener apparently running it. Over time, their lives are drawn back into each other's, as everything else seems to be falling apart.Featuring Warlock and Harriet's POVs, Crowley and Aziraphale passing as a human couple, and Thaddeus passing as a jerk.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Warlock Dowling, Crowley & Harriet Dowling, Crowley & Warlock Dowling, Harriet Dowling & Warlock Dowling, Nanny Ashtoreth & Harriet Dowling, Nanny Ashtoreth & Warlock Dowling, Warlock Dowling & Brother Francis, Warlock Dowling/Original Character(s)
Comments: 134
Kudos: 479





	1. Our Boy Came Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading this story. I have a couple of notes before starting, if you don't mind.  
> First, this story was originally going to be a one-shot with just this chapter, but then I started having more and more ideas and now it's a multi-chapter that's going to span the next ten years. So that's fun.  
> Secondly, this story is told almost entirely from Warlock's and Harriet's points of view. Occasionally there are jokes or bits of context that involve acknowledging Crowley and Aziraphale's true natures, but those will be hidden in footnotes where the humans can't find them.  
> Thirdly, this story does involve a major transgender character, as well as a character who others assume is trans. I am not trans myself, so if anyone reading this picks up on anything I get wrong with these characters, please do let me know so that I can address it as soon as possible. The last thing I want to do is offend anyone or make anyone uncomfortable with this story.  
> Fourthly and lastly, thank you for reading this, now enjoy the story!

Warlock Dowling was getting tired. He and his friends had been wandering around the streets for _ages_ , and they still hadn’t found the shop. Warlock was beginning to think that it didn’t really exist.

“It’s around here somewhere, I know it is,” said the gangly teenager who was leading the group, whose name was Peter.

“You said that five blocks ago,” pointed out Steph, a sceptical-looking blonde girl. She caught Warlock’s eye and rolled her eyes, and he snickered, shaking his head.

“Look, can you just admit you’re wrong, and we can go back to the car?” sighed Georgia. She was lagging at the back of the group, thoroughly sick of the outing. “My feet are tired.”

“You chose to wear those heels,” Peter told her. “I said, walking shoes.”

“These are walking shoes. I’m walking in them, aren’t I?”

Tired of the sniping, Warlock spoke up. “Pete. Are you sure it wasn’t that bookshop we passed earlier? That looked pretty dirty.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I don’t mean dirty like grimy, Lock. I mean _dirty_. You’re gonna love it.” He gave Warlock a wink, and kept going, turning another corner.

The others groaned, following behind.

The outing had begun innocently enough, a trip to London to celebrate Peter’s upcoming seventeenth birthday. Warlock had managed to borrow a car from his parents for the day (it wasn’t as though they’d miss it, really), and talked the driver into driving him and his friends up (the driver had agreed mainly because it meant a day out in London, and he had always wanted to ride the London Eye). The morning had been fun, wandering in and out of malls and tube stations, loitering, generally making nuisances of themselves. But after lunch, Peter had remembered a bookshop he had seen some years ago, when visiting with his parents, but had not been allowed to enter. He was convinced that they would all love it.

The trouble was finding it. They had been wandering around Soho for the past seventy-two minutes, with no luck.

Steph walked in step with Warlock, and spoke quietly. “I think he’s made this place up.”

Warlock shook his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised. How long do you think he’s gonna drag this out for?”

She glanced at her watch. “Eighteen more minutes,” she said decisively. “Then he’s going to turn around and say he thinks it’s closed down.”

“I say fourteen minutes,” Warlock countered, “and he’s gonna claim it moved.”

“You’re on.” Steph extended a hand, and Warlock shook it firmly.

“What are you two betting on?” Georgia asked from behind them.

Warlock turned around, walking backwards. “How long until Pete gives up.”

“Ooh!” Georgia said, perking up. “I say nine and a half minutes. But I wish he’d get it over with.”

Warlock and Steph each held out a hand to Georgia, who crossed her hands over and shook both at once.

“Oi! Come on, you lot! It’s around the next corner, I’m sure of it!” Peter, shouting back to them from several yards ahead.

The other three shared a look, then hurried to catch up.

It was not eighteen minutes, or fourteen, or even nine and a half. It took five minutes and seventeen seconds before Pete saw what he was looking for. “Aha!” he shouted, pointing triumphantly. “What did I tell you?”

“You _told us_ it was way back there,” Georgia said, somewhat unimpressed with the shop.

To be fair to Georgia, it didn’t look like much from the outside. The shop windows were dusty, not showing much of the inside, and the wooden doors were closed, although there was a small sign that read ‘OPEN’ in a curly font. The large sign above the door that announced the name of the shop, ‘INTIMATE BOOKS’, had seen better days.

Also unimpressed, Warlock’s gaze wandered to the shop next door. It looked like another bookshop, although it was less clear whether this one was open.

“All right,” Peter said, “let’s go in.”

Warlock looked above the door of the shop next door. A. Z. FELL AND CO read the sign above the door. It looked strangely inviting.

“Finally!” Georgia said, opening a door and stepping inside.

Peter followed, and Steph was about to enter when she noticed Warlock standing, staring to the left. “Lock, what’s up?”

Warlock jumped a little, startled out of his reverie. “Hm?”

“Are you coming in?”

“No, I don’t think so,” he said distractedly, looking back at the other bookshop. After a moment, he shook his head, and looked at Steph. He put a smile on his face. “You guys enjoy it,” he said. “I’m going to check out that place.”

Steph followed his gaze, and made a face. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Warlock shrugged. “I just want to check it out.”

“Do you want me to come with?”

“No,” he said quickly. “You go enjoy Pete’s dirty books. I’ll be fine.”

“If you’re sure?” Steph smiled at Warlock, and put a hand briefly on his elbow, before disappearing into the shop.

Warlock walked slowly towards the entrance of A.Z. Fell & Co. He put a hand on the door, and it swung open beneath his fingers. Warlock stepped slowly into the cool shop.

The second he was through the door, it fell quiet. The hustle and bustle from the street behind him was distant, a memory. The door swung shut behind him, and it was quiet. The shop was cool, but not unpleasantly so. There was a faint smell of something Warlock couldn’t quite place. It made him think of a library, only mustier. Most prevalent, though, was the feeling Warlock got in his stomach as he looked around and breathed in the air.

It felt like home.

Looking around at the tall bookshelves, Warlock began to hear two voices talking. It sounded like two men, although he couldn’t tell what they were saying.

Warlock crept forwards – walking normally didn’t feel right, he felt he should tiptoe – into the centre of the shop. A circular rug was surrounded by bookshelves, with a desk on one side. The shelves drew his eye up to the second-floor gallery, a circle that ran around the centre of the shop. Looking up, he could see two figures standing on the second level, talking quietly. There was something familiar about their figures, although he couldn’t place them exactly. One was wearing an entirely black outfit, and the other had some kind of camel-coloured coat on.

He stopped to listen to their conversation. The dark one was talking.

“...have to go, angel? We hardly know them. I mean, we stopped the apocalypse with them once, and now we’re invited to their wedding?”

Warlock frowned. He must have heard that wrong.

“I think it’ll be perfectly lovely,” the light one was saying. “It’ll be a chance for us to dress up! We haven’t done that for a while.”

“Not since the nineteenth century, according to your outfit,” the dark one said teasingly.

The light one gave him a gentle swat. “Oh, you—” he began to say, then stopped. He took a deep breath in his nose. “Can you…”

The dark one sniffed as well. “Is that…?”

Their heads swivelled together, looking down as one to see Warlock, standing on the floor below.

Warlock felt awkward, as though he’d interrupted something. He opened his mouth for an apology, until he saw their faces. Really _saw_ them.

Warlock took a step backwards as he recognised who he was looking at. It was Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis, his family’s staff from years ago. But they looked different. Francis looked less, well, tufty, and less ruddy, and his teeth were more normal than Warlock remembered. And Nanny, well.

Well.

Nanny looked like a man.

A fashionable man, dressed a little like an ageing rocker, but a man nonetheless.

They exchanged a panicked look above Warlock, then looked back at him. Warlock stared back at them, unsure of what to say. How was he supposed to start this conversation? _‘Hi, guys, you look different.’_ That was an understatement.

It was Nanny who broke the silence, leaning over the railing and squinting down at him through her sunglasses. “Warlock Dowling,” she said softly, in that voice he remembered so well from his childhood. “What a surprise.”

Warlock cleared his throat. “Uh, hello,” he said. Unable to form a coherent sentence in his mind, he instead said the first things that came into his mouth. “Am I…are you…huh?”

Nanny chuckled a little, and it was such a familiar noise that Warlock felt something warm bubble in his chest, in spite of his confusion. It was the sound she would make when they were playing together and he did something well, or when he asked for a bedtime song, or when she saw Brother Francis out tending the garden. The same Brother Francis who was apparently standing next to her now. “You must be confused,” Nanny said gently. “Don’t worry, little one. We can explain everything.”

Brother Francis shot Nanny a sharp look, but followed her down the stairs regardless. They reached Warlock on the lower level, who hadn’t moved, as though he was glued to the spot. Nanny placed a warm hand on his shoulder. “We have a lot to catch up on, child. Would you like to sit down with us in the back room? Only if you’re comfortable, of course.”

“I can make us some cocoa,” Brother Francis added, although he didn’t sound like Francis, Warlock just now realised.

Frowning, Warlock looked from one of them to the other. Something clicked in the back of his mind, and the situation began to make sense. Just barely. “Uh, yeah, that’s fine,” he said after a moment.

* * *

Ten minutes later, the shop had been shut, Warlock’s friends had been texted (they would meet up at the closest Starbucks in thirty minutes’ time, it was decided), and three cups of steaming cocoa had been distributed on the coffee table in the back room. Warlock took his cup between both hands, enjoying the warmth, and looked around. The décor was old, he supposed some people would call it outdated, but it felt cosy, lived-in. It felt like home.

Warlock looked from Nanny to Brother Francis, who were sitting on a couch opposite his squishy armchair. They were sitting close together, knees almost touching, and were exchanging a nervous look. There seemed to be an entire conversation going on between their eyes, which was impressive given that Nanny was still wearing the same dark glasses as ever.

(Long ago, Nanny had told Warlock that she wore the glasses were to hide a copper build-up in her eyes, which made them especially sensitive to light. He had never understood, though, why she still wore them at night. He wouldn’t have minded seeing her eyes.)

After a few moments, they turned to Warlock at the same time, which he again found a little unnerving. Brother Francis sat prim and upright, while Nanny was more relaxed, with one elbow up on the back of the couch in what was almost but not quite a sprawl.

Brother Francis took in a deep breath before speaking, as though working out what he was going to say. “Now, I expect you have several questions,” he began, choosing his words carefully.

Warlock shook his head. “Actually, I think I’ve figured most of it out,” he said, “but I do have a couple of questions. You and Nanny—actually,” he turned to Nanny, “is there something else I can call you? It feels a bit weird calling you Nanny now, and I don’t want to deadname you or anything.”

Nanny’s eyebrows shot up from behind the dark glasses. “Deadname? I—oh, I see,” he said. “You can call me Anthony. And I appreciate that, thank you.”

Warlock nodded, a little pleased that his assumption had been correct. “Anthony. It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise.” Anthony inclined his head.

Brother Francis’ eyes were flicking between the two of them, and he was frowning a little, like he was working something out.

“Anyway, I see you’ve both had work done,” Warlock said lightly. When they looked blankly at him, he pointed to his mouth. “Your teeth, Brother Francis. They look good,” he added quickly, realising he may have misstepped.

Brother Francis raised a hand absently to his own mouth, before understanding grew on his face. “Oh, yes, the teeth,” he said. “I’m glad you like them. Although I’m not an, er, a brother any more. Just Francis is fine.”

A small smile began on Warlock’s face, but he quickly quashed it. The adults he admired were letting him into their world, and he was determined not to spoil it by coming across as immature. “So did you two know each other before you worked for us?” he asked instead. “I always suspected there was something between you two, when you both left together.”

“Oh, we’ve known each other for a very long time,” Francis said, looking affectionately across at Nanny – _Anthony_ , Warlock reminded himself. “We used to…that is to say, our, er, employers…”

“We used to work for rival organisations,” Anthony supplied helpfully. “They didn’t like us fraternising with each other. But we quit those jobs—”

“Rather publicly,” Francis added.

“—and now we’re free agents.”

“And you run a bookshop together.” Warlock found himself smiling, despite himself. “That’s sweet.”

Anthony’s eyebrows shot up again. “Is it?”

“Thank you, dear boy,” Francis said warmly, and Warlock felt something warm bubble in his chest. He smiled a little wider.

Anthony was still leaning forwards in his seat. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, “how did you know about deadnames?”

“My friend, Steph, is trans,” Warlock said casually. “She’s awesome.”

Francis frowned. “I don’t recall a Stephanie,” he said. “Would we have met her?”

“A couple times, yeah. She was, uh…” Warlock trailed off, trying to work out how to describe his friend without using her deadname. He flailed for a moment, before a memory came to him. “My eighth birthday party. She put worms on the cupcakes.”

Francis and Anthony’s faces cleared in understanding, and the latter leaned back on the couch.1

“Is she one of the friends with whom you came to Soho today?” Francis asked.

Warlock nodded. “She’s my best friend. We go everywhere together. Except here, obviously.”

“She’s a lucky girl,” Francis said.

“She’s awesome,” Warlock said, then quickly took a sip of cocoa before he could say anything else. When he looked back up, he thought he caught Anthony and Francis exchanging a meaningful look over his head, but their attention was back on him before he could process it.

“My parents aren’t going to believe it when I tell them who I saw in London,” Warlock said, moving the conversation away from Steph. Then he paused, and looked between them. “Can I tell them? Are you guys, like, a secret?”

Anthony and Francis looked at each other, then back at Warlock. They both took deep breaths, but only Anthony spoke. “I don’t see why not. Any objections, angel?” he added, glancing back towards Francis.

Francis shook his head. “None at all, my dear.”

Warlock looked between the two of them, smiling to himself. It was nice to see at least one pair of adults in his life getting on well, even if they weren’t in his life any more.

“So,” Francis said, leaning forward in his seat, “how are you doing, my boy? How is your schooling progressing?”

Warlock shrugged. “The lessons aren’t as interesting as the ones you to used to give me, but it’s going okay, I guess.” This was actually an understatement. Warlock was at the top of his class in nearly every subject, except for history, in which Steph held the top spot. He was determined to win that title from her before the term was out, though. But Warlock had spent the past few years cultivating his persona of casual unaffectedness, and so wasn’t in the habit of drawing attention to any of his academic achievements, preferring to let those around him assume he fell somewhere in the middle. Nobody cared who was in the middle, so he was able to go largely unnoticed by the student body.

“Maths is pretty fun,” he continued, picking the first subject that came to mind, only realising afterward that he had chosen the nerdiest possible option. Warlock cringed inwardly, but neither Anthony nor Francis seemed to notice.

Francis pulled a pocket watch on a chain out of his waistcoat (a _pocket watch_. No, really) and flicked it open. An expression of consternation crossed his face. “My dear boy,” he said, “I’m afraid we have kept you far too long. Your friends will be wondering where you are.”

Warlock fished his phone out of his pocket and checked the time to find that yes, he had been there for way longer than intended. He had texts from his three friends, and even a call from Steph, none of which he had noticed buzzing in his pocket.

Warlock frowned. No way had he been sitting here for forty minutes. It was as like he had entered a pocket dimension in the back of this old bookshop, where time and mobile phones didn’t exist.

He stood up, pocketing his phone and finishing the cocoa. “I gotta go, I’m sorry…”

“Not to worry,” Francis said warmly, holding the shop door open for him.

Warlock was about to step out onto the street when he stopped, looking around. When did they get to the door? He didn’t remember walking through the shop. But he looked around, frowning, and there were Anthony and Francis, waving him off like nothing was strange.

Huh.

“Thanks for the cocoa,” he said, turning to go.

“It was good to see you, dear boy,” Francis beamed.

“You should come back,” Anthony added from behind him. “If you’re visiting London. We’ll be here.”

Francis reached down and slipped a hand into Anthony’s. “We will.”

Warlock nodded. “Bye, guys.”

They both raised their free hands in a wave, both smiling.

And then Warlock turned and was gone in a flash of long dark hair.

Crowley and Aziraphale let out deep breaths, hands entwined. Aziraphale closed the door, and glanced across at Crowley. “Well, that was a pleasant surprise. Now, about that invitation…”

“He came home.” Crowley’s voice was barely audible. He hadn’t moved, one arm still raised in farewell.

“What?”

Crowley lowered his arm slowly . He turned his head to look at Aziraphale, who could see the glint of a tear at the edge of his glasses. He smiled, a little watery. “He came back, Aziraphale. Our boy came home.”

* * *

* * *

1\. They remembered very clearly the grubby child who had been responsible for the worm-laden cupcakes. At the time, Warlock being friends with such an agent of chaos had been counted as a point towards Hell’s – or Crowley’s – endeavours.Return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are the cheat codes to create new chapters!


	2. White Wine in the Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warlock tells Harriet about the bookshop, and writes a letter (a Gen Z. Writing a letter. I know)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Thanks for coming back. This is just a note that I've attempted to be clever and add a skin onto this chapter, so if you want to enjoy the fruits of my labour you might want to make sure that 'Show Creator's Style' is selected up the top. It should work fine without it, though, so it's up to you.

That night, Warlock lay in his sleeping bag on the floor of Peter’s bedroom, head spinning. It had been a long time since he had thought about his old nanny or gardener, but seeing them today had awakened several old memories. He hadn’t really thought about it before, but in hindsight, it hadn’t been the most normal childhood. For starters, he was pretty sure that most of his current friends hadn’t been half-raised by two people trying to teach him opposing moral lessons 24/7. Most of them hadn’t been sung to sleep with lullabies about growing up to destroy the world, or given lessons on the importance of slugs to the ecosystem of a garden (in fact, Warlock was pretty sure that most gardeners disapproved of slugs).

And most of them hadn’t abruptly lost these people when they walked out of his life at the age of eleven.

He hadn’t been given an explanation at the time, but he had assumed that they had gone back to whichever agencies they had come from. The gardener had been replaced, but there had remained a nanny-shaped hole in his life. Until now, apparently.

No, he was going too fast, Warlock told himself. Just because he had found them again by some freak twist of fate, didn’t mean that he was going to see Anthony and Francis ever again. No sense in imagining himself into an arrangement that wasn’t going to happen.

Although they had invited him back to the shop…

Warlock’s train of thought was interrupted by the rustling of the sleeping bag next to him. He looked over to see Steph wriggling around, edging closer to him.

Strictly speaking, the girls were supposed to be sleeping separately in the lounge, but when the four of them had gotten back from London late in the evening they hadn’t wanted to wake Peter’s parents by moving furniture around, so they all ended up crashing in Peter’s room. And so Steph was on the floor next to Warlock, trying to get his attention by poking him gently. “Lock? You awake?” she whispered.

“Nope,” he whispered back. “Fast asleep. This is sleep-talking.”

She poked him harder then, deliberately. “Smart-arse.”

“Ow! That was assault. You just assaulted me.” He was grinning, though.

“Sure I did. Look, who was at that bookshop you disappeared into earlier today? I tried to look in as we went past, but it just looked deserted. You said you met some old friends?”

“Oh, yeah,” Warlock said. He hesitated, working out how to tell her. “Do you remember I used to have a Scottish nanny?”

Steph nodded, the movement barely visible in the faint moonlight coming around the sides of the curtains. “Nanny McPhee, yeah.”

“And do you remember that really weird gardener my family used to have? The one who always wore that smock, and talked funny?” Another nod. “Well, long story short, they’re now a couple. And they run that bookshop together. And my nanny is a man. His name is Anthony.”

There was a long pause, then Steph’s confused voice came through the darkness. “Wait, what the Hell?”

“I know,” Warlock told her. “Crazy, right? I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. But it’s definitely them.”

“And they just happened to own the bookshop next door to the one Pete took us to. What are the chances of that?”

“One in several hundred thousand, probably.”1

“Uh-huh.”

“How was Pete’s dirty bookshop?”

“Ugh,” Steph said, and Warlock could almost hear her eyes rolling. “It was so. Boring. The books were all old and cruddy, and covered in dust. There was a bit at the back behind a curtain, but the lady wouldn’t let us through to look. She kept glaring at us, she was kind of creepy. She kicked us out after…ten minutes? Total waste of time.”

“I’m glad we spent so long looking for it, then,” Warlock said dryly.

Steph snorted quietly.

“Hey!” Georgia’s voice cut across the room in a stage whisper. “Can you two shut up? I’m trying to sleep.”

Steph started to giggle quietly. Warlock managed to hold off until he could whisper, “Sorry!” back, then he started off too, shoulders shaking with silent mirth.

After a moment, a loud snore came from Peter’s bed. Steph and Warlock were unable to hold off their laughter, giggling properly into the darkness. Another loud snore, another batch of giggles. Warlock managed to control his laughter, only to be set off again by Steph, who was in turn set off by Warlock.

Across the room, Georgia let out a long-suffering sigh, pulling her pillow over her face. So much for sleeping tonight.

* * *

Harriet Dowling was in the kitchen when Warlock came home from his friend’s birthday trip. She spent most of her spare time in the kitchen, lately. The rest of the house was too large, too impersonal. She didn’t feel comfortable by herself in the lounge, no matter how many cushions she squeezed onto the couch with her (at last count, eleven). The office was Tad’s zone, not to be invaded by wives with small talk and questions (although wine was occasionally accepted). And the bedroom…well, the less said about that, the better.

So the kitchen it was, with the well-worn wooden table and comfortable chairs, not to mention the cheerful chatter of the cook, Tamara. She had been with the Dowlings for nearly eight years, and Harriet liked her. She was a bit older than Harriet, she didn’t mind her kitchen being invaded, and she had a kind face. And Harriet needed a kind face to talk to.

When Warlock came home shortly after lunchtime, Harriet was sitting at that wooden table, listening to Tamara tell a story about her grocery shop that morning. “And then – and this really got me – she put her hands on her hips and said to the machine,” Tamara put her own hands on her hips and puffed out her cheeks, putting on a posh voice to imitate the rude lady she had encountered, “‘I already put it on the scale! Can’t you see it, you stupid machine?’ I swear to God, if that self checkout was a person she would have throttled it.”

Harriet giggled. “Then what happened?”

“Well, the machine thought for a moment,” Tamara said, putting a hand to her chin as though thinking hard, “and then it says…it says, ‘Unexpected item in bagging area. Please remove item!’ I could almost see the steam coming out of her ears!”

The kitchen door opened quietly behind her, heralding Warlock’s arrival. Tamara glanced around, then quickly said, “Long story short, she went to a normal checkout, and when I left she was still demanding to talk to a manager about the emotional damage the self checkout had caused her.”

Harriet shook her head, still laughing. “Oh, dear. Hello, Warlock!” she said more loudly, directing her words over Tamara’s head to where Warlock was trying to sneak past their conversation.

He froze. “Hey, Mom.”

“How was it?”

He shrugged. “Okay.” He paused. “Can I put my stuff away?” He held up the sleeping bag.

She nodded. “Sure.” He left, and she turned to Tamara. “Any chance of another coffee?”

Tamara got up to make the coffee, and Harriet went upstairs.

She knocked at Warlock’s door, and pushed it open to see him in the middle of dumping his clothes from his backpack into the washing basket. She folded her arms ad leaned against the doorframe. “I got a text this morning, from Peter’s dad. He wanted to apologise for the sleeping arrangements Any idea what that was about?”

Warlock shrugged. “We were all in Pete’s room, and his parents flipped this morning. I think they thought Georgia’s parents were gonna sue them.”

Harriet frowned. “What for?”

Warlock shrugged again.

She sighed. “Well, if that’s all then I won’t bother telling Tad about it.”

Warlock didn’t react, now trying to fit his sleeping bag back into the spot it had previously taken up in his cupboard. He grunted, trying to shove it in, but he was missing a couple of inches of height.

Harriet walked over. “Here, let me.”

He turned to her. “You know I’m taller than you,” he said, just a little condescending.

“Only by an inch,” she reminded him, “and not when I’m wearing heels.”

She took the sleeping bag and pushed it in successfully. She stepped back and surveyed the cupboard. “You have too much stuff,” she decided. “Have you thought about a clear-out?”

Warlock’s eyes went wide. “I need all this stuff,” he said.

“Sure you don’t,” Harriet said, gathering enthusiasm. “We could take some of these old things to the charity shop. I’ll have a clear-out, too. It’ll be good for us. Probably.”

“No,” he insisted, “this is all important stuff. I use all this stuff.”

She pulled out a scarf that had been bunched up amongst a collection of 3-D puzzles. “You have never worn this scarf in your life,” she said.

“I did! You know, when we went to, uh, the place. The cold place.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Okay, how about those board games? Whenever I suggest playing one, you call them boring games.”

“I might grow into them!” he said.

“And this!” She grabbed a sweater and holding it up against Warlock. It was black, with a red snake design running around the sleeves, and was far too small. “You can’t need this any more.”

He snatched it back and rolled it up in his arms. “That one’s definitely not going. It was a gift from Nanny Ash- from my nanny, remember?”

And she suddenly did. Warlock had been gifted that sweater by his nanny for his tenth birthday, and he had refused to take it off for weeks afterward. Harriet wouldn’t normally consider Warlock to be a sentimental boy, but he sure had a soft spot for anything that had come from that nanny.

She nodded, feeling a bit bad. “Okay, you can keep that one. But try and think about it, okay? We both have too much stuff. Let’s try do some Marie Kondo-ing.”

He looked blank. “Do some what?”

“Oh, please tell me you’ve heard of Marie Kondo.” Another blank look, a head shake. “Okay. Tonight, you and I are sitting down and watching Netflix together. Consider this your cultural education for the month.”

He sighed. “Okay, whatever.” But a slight curve to his mouth betrayed the fact that he wasn’t entirely displeased by this arrangement.

“Great,” she said.

Warlock nodded, looking down at the sweater in his arms. He seemed to remember something. “I found something weird when I was in London,” he said conversationally.

“Oh?” Harriet said, picking up a pair of jeans that had been dumped unceremoniously on his chair, and folding them. “What was it?”

“Well, there was this old bookshop,” he said. “I went in there by myself, the others weren’t bothered. It was full of dusty old books, and there were these two old- uh, middle-aged gay men running it. I got talking to them, and they invited me into the back for some cocoa.”

Harriet had stopped halfway through folding a second-pair of trousers, and was staring at Warlock. “You didn’t go, did you?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. A hint of mischief crept into his voice, unnoticed by Harriet. “They shut up the shop and everything. We talked for ages. The others thought they’d lost me.”

Harriet’s eyes had gone wider in unbridled horror, and her mouth was gaping. “You…what…they…are you okay? Did anything happen?”

Warlock started to laugh, then; he couldn’t help it. “It’s okay, Mom. We know them.”

She blinked rapidly a few times, trying to filter through their acquaintances in her mind, cross-referencing them with Warlock’s description of ‘middle-aged gay couple’. She came up blank. “What?”

“Do you remember the gardener we used to have? Brother Francis?”

Harriet nodded.

“Well, he’s got together with my old nanny.” He held up the sweater. “They run a bookshop in Soho.”

She frowned for a long moment, trying to process this. “Brother Francis…and Nanny Ashtoreth?”

“That’s right,” Warlock grinned. “Although Nanny goes by Anthony now.”

Harriet put the trousers down and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Hang on, I need a moment to process this,” she said. She thought hard, then nodded to herself. “Okay. So Nanny Ashtoreth is…transgender?”

Warlock nodded.

“And now sh— _he_ is, what, married to Brother Francis?”

He thought back. “I don’t know if they’re married. I didn’t see them wearing any rings. But Anthony kept calling Francis ‘Angel’, and Francis called him ’my dear’. They’re definitely together.”

Harriet nodded vaguely. “Okay. Okay.” A thought occurred to her, and she looked sharply at Warlock. “Is this a joke? Are you trying to distract me from the clear-out?”

“No, I swear!” he insisted. “It’s true! I have the address of the bookshop and everything. You can go meet them if you want!”

Harriet considered it, then shook her head. “Maybe some other time. But thanks. Look, Tamara’s making coffee. You want some?”

He nodded. “I’ll just put this sweater away, then I’ll be down.”

“Okay,” she said, going back towards the kitchen. When she got to the door, she stopped and said, “Don’t forget, we’re going to Netflix and chill tonight!”

“Ugh, Mom!” Harriet heard from behind her, and grinned to herself as she went down the stairs. She knew what Netflix and chill meant, of course, she didn’t live under a rock. But one advantage of being an internet-savvy mother was that she knew exactly how to embarrass her teenage son. And naturally, she took every opportunity to do so.

Harriet inhaled appreciatively when she got into the kitchen, enjoying the smell of freshy brewed coffee. Tamara really was a godsend.

* * *

_A.Z. Fell and Co._  
_19 Greek Street_  
_London W1D 4DT_

_Dear Anthony and Francis_

_I hope it’s okay for me to write to you. When I left you told me to stay in touch but you didn’t give me a mobile number or anything. I tried looking online and this address was all I found. Does the bookshop have a phone?_

_This is Warlock by the way. I haven’t really written a lot of letters before so I don’t know if you’re supposed to announce who you are now or at the end. But hi. It’s me._

_I told my mom I’d met you two and she didn’t believe me at first. Any chance you can write back and convince her that you’re real? I think she’s concerned that I had a bad experience with two creepy shopkeepers and I’m too afraid to talk about it. I know your writing is nicer than mine so I wouldn’t be able to fake a letter from you._

_How are you guys? I’ve thought of a lot of questions I wanted to ask since I saw you. Like how log have you known each other? Did you meet when you were working for my dad or did you know each other before? You said you worked for rival organisations. How are gardeners and nannies rivals? They seem like completely different jobs._

_Francis – I don’t know if this is rude to ask but you sounded completely different when I last met you then you did when I was younger. Am I remembering wrong or did you change your accent? No judgment, I know people do that sometimes here. Just curious._

_Anthony – my mom says to ask if you still like a glass of white wine in the evening. I think it’s a code but I don’t get it. So do you still like a glass of white wine in the evening?_

_I think that’s all I had to ask. Plus my hand is beginning to cramp. Not used to writing things down. Do you guys have an email address I can email instead?_

_I know it’s been a long time since you worked here but I would like to keep in touch if you still want to. You guys are cool. And I need someone to talk to who isn’t my parents or Tamara._

_Kind regards (is that how you end a letter?)  
Warlock T. Dowling_

  


Warlock hovered by the mailbox for several minutes, the letter clutched in his hand. ‘Do stay in touch,’ Francis had said, but was it really a good idea? He and Anthony probably wanted to be left alone, not bothered by some kid they used to look after five years ago.

And yet when he had been in the bookshop, it had felt like he was home, more so than he had ever felt at the ambassadorial residence. It was this feeling deep in his chest, warming and relaxing him, and making it feel like time wasn’t passing. He wanted to feel that again, the feeling from being around Anthony and Francis that was hard to describe, but so, so welcoming.

After several long moments, Warlock nodded to himself, and slipped the letter into the mailbox. No going back now.

* * *

* * *

1\. In ordinary circumstances, the chances of Warlock coming across two people from his past living next door to a bookshop his friend had seen a long time ago would be extraordinarily high. In this case, however, it was always going to happen. The events of that day had been put into motion years earlier, when Peter’s father had been sent on a work trip to London Soho, with spare tickets for his family to tag along for the weekend. The hotel they had stayed in was deliberately located only a few streets away from both bookshops, and the weather had been nice enough that the family had been prompted to go on a walk to St James’ Park to feed the ducks, on a route which would take them along the necessary streets. This had all been set up for a very specific reason, but I cannot explain it to you. After all, some things are simply ineffable.Return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments always make me happy.  
> Just letting you know, the footnote for the previous chapter has somehow shown up on this one, and I can't work out how to get rid of it. If anyone as any pointers I'd love to hear them, but basically this is just saying that if you see it, please disregard the other end note for this chapter :)


	3. Franthony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Warlock dabbles in different styles of communication, Harriet makes terrible jokes, and Thaddeus shows up (but not for long).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! There's a couple of new types of skin in this chapter, so it's a good idea to have creator's style turned on if you don't already. I may have gone a little overboard. Don't worry, we're going back to mostly a straight narrative style from the next chapter onwards.  
> My country has gone on lockdown for at least the next four weeks, so I really have no excuse not to keep writing this. I'm going to try to publish one chapter a week, but I'm also really bad at sticking to uploading schedules, so no promises there.

_My dear Warlock_

_Thank you for your letter. Anthony and I were glad to hear from you. We are both well, and would be very happy to continue our acquaintance._

_I shall do my best to answer your questions, my boy, although I should explain that some of the details are rather delicate, due to the nature of our former jobs. You make a good point regarding gardeners and nannies. Without giving away too many specifics, ~~Cr~~ Anthony and I previously worked as agents for religious groups with opposing ideologies. Our superiors would occasionally send operatives (such as ourselves) to certain locations, to try and influence people to their point of view. We would go to the same location where possible, to try and keep a reasonable level of balance between our sides, as it were. So yes, Anthony and I did know each other before we worked for your family. We had been working together for quite some time before things came to a head, around the same time we left your father’s employ, and we resigned those jobs and started this bookshop. The rest, as they say, is history._

_You did well to spot the change in my voice. The accent I affected when I was gardening was a bit of a joke, a way to help people trust me. The voice you heard when you came to my bookshop is my usual voice._

_Anthony has written a separate note for your mother, to answer her question. I was rather impressed with her shrewdness in asking that._

_The bookshop does indeed have a telephone, although Anthony seems to think that a young man of your age would be more comfortable communicating via electronic mail. He has therefore set up a mailing address for the bookshop. You can send messages to the below address:_

_snekbookshop@gmail.com_

_He assures me that the messages will go through to my computer. I am afraid this technology is still rather new to me, but I am endeavouring to learn how to use it._

_I hope all is well in the Dowling household. How are your parents? I do hope that this missive will be enough to convince your mother that we are, indeed, real._

_Please do not hesitate to write back, dear boy, either to this same address or to the e-mail address above. We look forward to hearing from you._

_Kind regards,  
Francis A. Fell_

* * *

In the same envelope, another, smaller piece of paper was folded unevenly.

* * *

_Warlock,_

_Good to hear from you. Francis has covered most of it in his letter, but I need to give you this message for Harriet:_

_“Very clever. You and I both know that I much prefer a nice red. As do you, if I remember correctly.”_

_That’s all. Keep up the good work, kid._

_-AJC_

* * *

Warlock wandered into the kitchen, holding Francis’ letter in one hand and reading it. With the other, he dropped the note from Anthony on the kitchen table in front of his mother. “For you.”

She picked up the note and read it, then reread it. A small smile played on her lips. “It is them, then.”

“I told you it was,” Warlock said absent-mindedly, wandering out of the kitchen and up to his room.

Harriet took the note and folded it evenly, grinning. Good on Anthony. She had suspected that there was something going on between their former nanny and gardener – she would have had to be blind not to see the tension between them, the looks they exchanged when they thought nobody was watching them – but she had hardly expected it to end up with them buying a bookshop together. Each to their own, she supposed. At least they were happy.

Upstairs, Warlock sat down on his bed as he read the letter for the third time. He smiled a bit when he got to, ‘we would be very happy to continue our acquaintance,’ and frowned at the paragraph that followed. He understood that Francis had to censor some details, for privacy or whatever, but what he said still didn’t make sense. Rival religious groups that tried to spread their ideologies? He didn’t remember either Anthony or Francis praying, or trying to get other people to. What sort of religion did they belong to?

Francis had been part of something that was all about peace, that much was obvious. Telling Warlock not to step on bugs, and rescue spiders that got inside, and be kind to all other creatures – Warlock guessed that could be a religion. Buddhism, maybe? He didn’t know anything much about it, but he resolved to research it, to see if it matched up with what Francis had taught.

But Anthony had told Warlock that he would one day inherit the Earth and squash all unworthy creatures under his heel. Looking back, it was pretty obviously a metaphor rather than literal, but a metaphor for what? What the hell sort of religion taught that its followers would rule the world? A cult of some sort? It was certainly the opposite of whatever Francis’ beliefs had been.

Warlock opened up his laptop, mind made up. The ‘explanation’ in the letter had felt pretty final, and it didn’t seem like either Anthony or Francis was going to offer any further wisdom about their previous jobs. They had put that stuff pretty firmly behind them. Warlock would do some research – something he was quite good at, he know what keywords to search, and which websites to trust over others – but be wouldn’t press for any more answers.

And then he would send them an email. He double-checked the email address that Francis had painstakingly written out, complete with a little flourish on the ‘g’ in ‘gmail’. It was kind of a weird address. He would ask about that, instead.

* * *

From: warlockdowling@gmail.com

To: snekbookshop@gmail.com

Time: Sunday, 11:47pm

Hey guys

Thanks for letting me email you. Did you really not have an email address before now? I thought it was something everybody had.

Why are you called “snek bookshop”? Do you have a snake? Can I see it? I haven’t met a snake in real life, only at the zoo, and they’re behind glass which feels a bit cruel. Although zoos are important for conservation efforts.

We’ve been learning about conservation at school, and I’ve been reading a lot about it in my own time. Did you know that the mountain gorilla is endangered? They build nests, or at least that’s what Mr. Harris said. I’m not sure I believe him, though. He’s a bit strange. I want to go to the Congo Basin one day, to try and help them, but that’s a long way off. Dad said I have to finish school first, and go to college before I can go “gallivanting”. That’s what he said, gallivanting. I don’t think I’m really a gallivanting sort of person. Who gallivants? Can someone be a gallivanter?

Gallivant has stopped looking like a word now. It’s weird how that happens when you say something enough times.

Sorry if this doesn’t make any sense. It’s late and I’m kind of tired. But you have my email address now. I’m going to gallivant off to bed.

-Warlock

* * *

** IM message thread **

10:41am Monday

**Warlock  
**do you think I’m a gallivanter?

**Steph  
**what?  
I don’t think that’s a word

**Warlock  
**okay, do you think I could gallivant?

**Steph  
**anyone could gallivant if they really wanted to  
except maybe mr harris

**Warlock  
**what’s wrong with mr harris?

**Steph  
**have you seen his moustache? that’s not a gallivanting moustache

**Warlock  
**I’d love to see a gallivanting moustache

**Steph  
**why gallivanting?

**Warlock  
**idk  
I just like the word

**Steph  
**gallivant

**Warlock  
**gallivant

**Steph  
**galllllllllivannnnnnnt

**Warlock  
**now you’re just being silly

**Steph  
**oh and you’re not

**Warlock  
**I’m always serious

**Steph  
**bullshit  
gallivanters aren’t serious

**Warlock  
**so now it’s a word

**Steph  
**shut up

**Warlock  
**make me

/* user **StephanieH** blocked user **WarlockD** */

/* user **StephanieH** unblocked user **WarlockD** */

**Steph  
**so there

* * *

From: snekbookshop@gmail.com

To: warlockdowling@gmail.com

Time: Monday, 5:47pm

Dear Warlock

The bookshop has had no real need for an email address before now, although I suspect I may use it from now on for some of my contacts in the rare book field. A lot of trade has moved online these days, which is a shame. There is something to be said for auction-houses.

We used to have a snake at the bookshop, yes, although I had to pass it on to another home recently since Anthony was rather wary of it. He refused to be in the same room as the snake. I made sure it went to a good home, don’t worry. Your interest in conservation is to be commended, it is not a vocation many your age are interested in but there is a lot of good to be done in that field. By chance, I have a few books that came in recently regarding gorillas. If you like, I could send them to you to read.

Between you and me, gorillas do indeed make nests. I saw a documentary on the subject once. God’s truth.

Gallivanter is a word, to describe one who jaunts with a certain amount of wanderlust. You could be a gallivanter, if you put your mind to it. Although you have always struck me as more considered than that. Even when you were a young boy, you did not usually do things without a purpose in mind. Even if that purpose was causing untold mischief.

Anthony is telling me to say that gorillas do not build nests. Although he has never met a gorilla, so I am not sure why he considers himself an authority on the subject.

How are your parents? I have been meaning to ask. We parted on good terms, but have not spoken with them since your eleventh birthday. Rather a lot happened shortly after that, you see, and it seems to have slipped both our minds to follow up. Thaddeus and Harriet were good employers, and I do hope they are well.

Kind regards,

Francis & Anthony

* * *

Late Saturday afternoon, Warlock was ambling down the stairs, smiling at something on his phone when Harriet passed him on her way up. “Another email from Franthony?” she asked, grinning to herself a bit.

He stopped and frowned at her. “From what?”

“Franthony,” she said, eyes widening innocently. “Francis and Anthony. Isn’t that how you talk about couples now? Put their names together?”

Warlock rolled his eyes, deciding not to dignify that with a response. He kept walking, staring firmly at his phone lest his mother try and make another terrible joke.

Harriet snickered to herself as she continued upstairs. She knew the joke was bad, but she was running out of ways to try and embarrass Warlock. He might have pretended to hate it, but she knew they were at least making a connection while Thad wasn’t there.

Thinking about her husband brought her mind back to her objective, and her smile faded. She pushed open the bedroom door and sighed to herself. The sooner she got it over with, the better.

Harriet wasn’t sure when she had started to dread the calls. It wasn’t logical, she knew. When she had married Thad some nineteen years ago, she knew what she was getting into. She knew that his job meant that he would be away from home for long stretches, that he would work late more often than not, that she would see any children far more than he did. But over the past couple of years, they had grown more and more distant, even when they were sleeping in the same bed. They had run out of things to talk about, and when Thaddeus was away he called less and less frequently. Although to be fair, so did Harriet.

But they had a scheduled call, and Harriet was determined to make the most of it.

She gripped her phone in her hand, perched on the edge of the bed. 4:59pm.

She shook her head. It was ridiculous to feel nervous. She was just about to call her husband. The man she had vowed to spend the rest of her life with.

The man she hadn’t spoken to in over a month.

She watched as the time on her phone ticked over to 5:00. This was it.

Harriet waited until 5:01 before she called. She wanted to give him the chance to call first, for once. But no call came in, so she selected his contact and began a video call.

It rang out.

She frowned, and checked the date. No, this was definitely when they had decided to call. She tried again.

She called two more times before eventually, Thaddeus answered the phone. “What?” He was squinting at the camera. He had either just woken up, or he’d been distracted from another task.

Harriet quickly smoothed her face into a smile. “Hi, honey!” she said, as peppy as she could. “How are you?”

“Fine, fine, this just isn’t a good time. Why did you call?”

Harriet felt her face begin to fall. She summoned all the pep she had left over from high school cheerleading. “We said we’d call now, remember? So we could catch up. It’s been a long time,” she added.

Thaddeus shook his head, raising a takeaway coffee to his mouth. Distracted from another task, then. “We said we’d call on Saturday.”

Harriet’s face was stony, now. “It is Saturday.”

He scoffed. “No, it isn’t.” There was a murmur off camera, and his eyes widened. “Oh. It is Saturday.”

“Is there someone else there with you?” She hadn’t recognised the other voice.

“Just my new secretary. Amy. Have you met her?”

“I don’t think so.” She hadn’t.

Thaddeus turned his phone around so the camera was pointing at the person on the other side of the table. Amy was in her early twenties, blonde, and as far as Harriet could tell, pretty cute. The same as all Thaddeus’ other secretaries, then.

Amy grinned widely, waving with a lot more pep than Harriet had managed to summon. “Hi, Mrs Dowling!”

“Hello Amy,” she smiled, giving a half-hearted wave.

The camera turned back around to face Thaddeus. He was chewing something now. Apparently, she had interrupted their breakfast. “As you can see, honey, I’m in a business meeting at the moment. I’ll call you back later, alright?”

Harriet knew from experience that he would stop listening and hang up in about 0.8 seconds, so she got the next words out as quickly as she could. “Doyouknowwhenyou’recominghome?”

He paused, finger halfway to the screen. He shook his head. “Sometime next month, maybe. I’ll let you know.”

And then he was gone.

Harriet lay back on the bed with a huff of frustration. ‘Some time next month, maybe.’ It was only the fifth, so that was hardly helpful information.

She also knew from experience that Thad saying, ‘I’ll call you back later,’ at this time of day meant that she could be sitting up all night, watching her phone and waiting for him to call, until she fell asleep in the early hours. The man didn’t have a great concept of time zones, despite flitting back and forth between them for the better part of twenty years. Or perhaps he just didn’t care when they affected other people.

Harriet frowned to herself. She was being uncharitable, she knew. Thad’s job was important. It must be, for him to spend so much time away from his family.

She stood up and shook off the phone call, heading downstairs. She found Warlock at the kitchen table, typing intently on his phone. Nothing unusual there.

Harriet sat down opposite Warlock. She reached across and slipped the phone out from between his fingertips. “Hey!” he said, looking up indignantly.

“Don’t worry, I’m not looking at it,” she said, placing it screen-down on the table to prove her point. “I just wanna talk.”

He sighed. “What about?”

“I’ve just spoken with your father. He isn’t sure when he’s going to be back, I’m afraid.”

Warlock rolled his eyes. He didn’t say, ‘no surprises there,’ but she could tell he was thinking it.

“So,” she continued with a bit more enthusiasm, “I thought maybe we could invite your new friends around for tea.”

He frowned. “Who, Francis and Anthony?”

She nodded brightly. “Only if you want to, of course. I mean, I’d like to meet them. And it might be best to invite them over when your father isn’t here.” She paused delicately. “You know how he feels about Steph.”

He nodded, grimacing. There was a reason Steph hadn’t come over to their house for three years, despite being Warlock’s best friend.

“Would that be weird? I don’t want it to be weird,” Harriet said. “But if you want them to come over, you’re welcome to invite them one weekend. I’ll cook something.”

Warlock’s eyes widened, and Harriet hastily amended herself. “I’ll ask Tamara to cook something, and pass it off as mine.”

Warlock relaxed. He started to grin. “That would be cool, actually.”

“Great,” Harriet beamed. She slid the phone back across the table. “You can choose when it is, and try and think of something for us to eat. I’ll sort the rest out.”

Warlock picked up the phone and was quickly engrossed, typing even faster than before. Harriet nodded, satisfied, and went out into the garden.

She stood outside the kitchen door and breathed in the fresh air. This was going to be good. She could tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the email addresses in this chapter are real ones that I made for this story. You can email them, if you like. You might even receive a reply.
> 
> And again, please ignore the other footnote for this chapter. It's gone rogue.


	4. Memory Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some memories of Crowley and Harriet's friendship, before the upcoming dinner party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again! Remember what I said about hoping to publish one chapter a week? Well, my muse has never stuck to a writing schedule in its life, and it turns out it isn't going to start now. I'm so sorry.
> 
> Small content warning for this chapter: it deals with the aftermath of an attempted child abduction. If that's not something you're comfortable with reading, you might want to skip to the first horizontal line, or do a page search for "2016" and read from there.
> 
> Happy reading!

**2014**

It was 9:30pm, on the worst day of 27-year-old Harriet Dowling’s life.

She had known, of course, that it was always a possibility. As the wife of a diplomat, there was always going to be upheaval, uncertainty, the chance of danger. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t known what she was signing up for.

That didn’t make it any less painful when somebody tried to take her son away from her.

It was 9:30pm on the worst day of Harriet Dowling’s life, and she was halfway through her second bottle of red wine. The staff had gone home, the Secret Service agents had retreated to their posts outside, and with Thad in Washington D.C, Harriet was all alone. So here she sat, in a kitchen that was too large, in a house that wasn’t her own, in a country that wasn’t her home, drinking steadily through bottles of mid-range pinot noir.

There was a gentle tap at the door. Harriet jumped a foot.

Perhaps she wasn’t entirely alone.

A second later, the familiar face of the nanny appeared around the kitchen door, followed by the rest of her. “Warlock’s just popped off to sleep.” Even with her sunglasses, Harriet could tell that her sympathetic smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Harriet nodded distantly, dropping her gaze from the door back to her nearly-empty glass. “Good,” she said faintly. “Good.”

The nanny was hovering by the door. After a long moment of silence, she cleared her throat. “Right, I’ll be off, then-”

“Stay.” Even as the word left her mouth, Harriet hated how thin and desperate it sounded. It hung in the air between them for a moment.

The nanny looked taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

“If you want to,” Harriet said. “I…I don’t want to be alone,” she admitted, the words rushing out before she could stop them.

The nanny paused, looking uncertain.

“Lilith,” Harriet said. “That’s your name, right? Lilith Ashtoreth.”

She inclined her head, expression unreadable. “It is.”

“Lilith. Can I…can I tell you to do things? I don’t know, I’ve never had staff before. This is all new.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Lilith didn’t seem to want to stay, but neither did she leave.

After several seconds, Harriet held up what was left of the bottle of wine. “Do you like red?”

A smile flitted across Lilith’s face, and Harriet knew she had won. “I’m partial to a glass, now and again.”

“Today’s as good a day as any.” Harriet waggled the bottle invitingly.

Lilith glanced back into the hallway, then shrugged and closed the door, slinking over to the table and sitting down across from Harriet. “It can’t hurt,” she agreed, reaching across for the bottle and pouring it into a wine glass.1

They drank for a few minutes, the silence stretching between them. Eventually, Harriet cleared her throat. “You were there, weren’t you?”

Lilith nodded.

“What happened? Exactly. They wouldn’t…they wouldn’t tell me.”

Lilith looked at her for a long moment. Harriet could feel her gaze boring through the dark lenses of her glasses. “Are you sure you want to know?”

Harriet nodded. “Yes. I have to…I have to know.” She could feel the emotion bubbling up in her throat again, threatening to spill over into tears. She didn’t think she had any left to cry, but there they were. “I have to know in case…it happens again.” She had to know what to be afraid of.

Lilith drew in a deep breath, in, out. She topped up her glass, and leaned forward on the table. She started to talk, her voice calm and even. “I went to pick wee Warlock up from school. I was waiting across the street, with the other mothers and nannies. Hari was with me, as usual.2 Warlock came out of the gate with his friends, and before we could cross the street a van pulled up outside. The occupant threw the door open and grabbed Warlock.”

Harriet put a hand over her mouth. Lilith reached forward and covered Harriet’s other hand with her own, resting on the table. She continued speaking, voice low and reassuring.

“Luckily, the van’s engine stalled3, and the driver couldn’t go anywhere. Hari ran over and pulled him out of the van and onto the road. I ran over as fast as I could4 and grabbed Warlock. The second man tried to run away, but tripped over5 and was apprehended by Hari a moment later.”

Harriet blinked hard. She could picture it. The anonymous white van, the fear on Warlock’s face. The scream from her baby’s mouth when he was grabbed. The panic and fear set into her chest, still as strong as it was when she was first told about the incident, hours earlier. The news had come from a security agent who was more concerned about whether his tea-break was going to be postponed than he was about the fact that she had nearly lost her son.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She wasn’t going to cry. Not again. Not in front of…

She felt a gentle hand cupping her cheek, the thumb wiping away a tear. Harriet flinched, and opened her eyes to see Lilith’s hand puling back from her face. Even through the glasses, Harriet could feel her intense gaze on her. 

Lilith offered a faint smile. “Nothing like that will ever happen again,” she said firmly. “Warlock is not going anywhere. Not on my watch.”

For a moment, Harriet almost believed it.

* * *

**2016**

It was 9:30pm, on the most exhausting day of 29-year-old Harriet Dowling’s life.

Earlier that day she had supervised a meeting of the rowdiest beings on the planet, whose only goal in life seemed to be causing mischief and mayhem. Or, as the invitations had called it, an eighth birthday party.

It seemed like everything that could go wrong with the party, did. That morning, the bouncy castle had failed to turn up, and she had been on the phone to the party supply company for most of an hour trying to find out where it was (Leeds, apparently). Bouncy castle written off (with a footnote to demand a refund from the company as soon as the party was done with), Harriet had been able to focus on the rest of the day, and everything that would go wrong with it.

She had managed to find a party entertainer on short notice, and thanked God for community Facebook pages. However, when he arrived, he had turned out to be an _adult_ party entertainer. One who was understandably pissed off that his services weren’t required despite him rushing to get there on short notice. Harriet had cursed community Facebook pages to Hell, before asking the newly-hired Tamara to feed the poor man and help smuggle him out of the property while the party attendants and their parents were arriving.

The day had gotten worse from there. The birthday cake had been made with salt instead of sugar; some terror of a child had seen fit to spike the cupcakes with worms; and to top it off, a guest had gotten lost in the hedge maze. After a frantic search, he was found sitting under a table, enjoying the salty cake by himself. He had crawled out of the maze under the hedges, and was blissfully unaware that anyone was looking for him.

All in all, Harriet felt she deserved the glass of red wine she was currently pouring. She passed the bottle to Lilith, who was sitting across the kitchen table. “Cheers,” Harriet said, raising her glass.

“Cheers,” Lilith echoed, and they took a drink together.

Harriet let out a deep sigh and leaned back in her chair. “Well,” she said, “that happened.”

“It certainly did,” Lilith said, mirroring her pose. “Did you manage to get that entertainer off the premises? I forgot to follow up.”

Harriet nodded. “Yeah, he left while the others arrived. Capheus, was his name. Not a bad looking guy,” she commented, raising the glass to her lips.

Lilith quirked an eyebrow. “Was he? I didn’t really notice.”

“Not your type?”

“Not really.”

Harriet surveyed Lilith over the rim of her glass. “What is your type? I’ve never seen you comment on anyone. None of the security service men. Or women. Or celebrities. Do you have a type?”

Lilith laughed a little, a careful sound that seemed to be giving her space to think of a response. “I prefer slightly older men,” she said eventually.

“Oh, really?” Harriet grinned. She put her glass down and leaned forward, trying to gauge Lilith’s age. It was almost impossible. She knew that she was older than Harriet, and maybe a bit older than Thaddeus. Past that, she had no idea.

Harriet frowned, trying to think of men they both knew who fit that description. The only person in the household she could think of was… “The gardener!”

Lilith choked on her drink. “What?” she said, voice low and startled.

“Brother Francis. Is he your type?”

“What? No, I…no!”

Harriet raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” she said, light and teasing.

“How about you?” Lilith deflected, still sputtering slightly. “Ogling strippers while your husband’s out of town. Whatever would Mr Dowling say?”

“It doesn’t count if you don’t touch,” Harriet said. “Like artwork. Or nuns.”

“Nuns?”

“They can look, but not touch. It’s part of their vow of chastity, or whatever. I’m basically a nun.”

“I’m sure it is.” Lilith didn’t sound remotely convinced.

“It is! I’m not ogling strippers, and you’re not interested in Brother Francis.” Harriet nodded, satisfied, and went back to her glass of wine. She pretended not to notice Lilith rolling her eyes at her from across the table.

* * *

**2024**

It was 5:30pm, on the most important day of 16-year-old Warlock Dowling’s life. Well, almost.

“They’re nearly here! Is it ready? Are we ready? Where are the plates?”

Harriet smiled to herself as she watched Warlock rushing around the kitchen, making sure everything was set. He dashed from one cupboard to another, opening and closing them in quick succession, shaking his head between each one.

“You’ve lived in this house all your life, sweetie, surely you know where the plates are kept.”

“Not the normal plates. The fancy ones. Aha!” He pulled a stack of four plates out of a top cupboard, slowly, almost reverently. He shot her a grin. “Got ’em.”

It was rather endearing, seeing Warlock so determined to make this dinner party go well. He had thrown himself into planning the evening, not wanting to show himself up in front of his two new (old) friends. She understood wanting adults’ approval. She had been sixteen once.

“They used to work here, they know us,” she told him. “I’m sure they won’t mind the normal plates.”

Warlock shook his head, eyes a little wild. “It has to be perfect.”

“Okay,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender and stepping back, even further out of the way.

He looked around the room, checking things off a mental checklist. “Plates…cutlery…fancy napkins…” he muttered to himself. “And you’ve got the food under control, right?”

“Yep,” she nodded. “Tamara gave me strict instructions on how to reheat it. Even I couldn’t burn it if I tried.”

“Please don’t try,” he said, coming to a stop in front of her. “And do you remember what I said about Anthony?”

Harriet nodded again. “Short hair, skinny jeans, looks like an ageing rock star. Still has an incredibly distinctive tattoo on his temple. Don’t worry. I’ll recognise him.”

“Good. And mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t call them Franthony.”

She started to laugh at that.

A moment later they heard a buzzer sounding through the house, signalling that someone had been let through the gate. Warlock straightened up and stared at Harriet, then glanced around the kitchen one last time, apparently finding everything to his standard. “They’re here,” he said, and tore out the kitchen door.

Harriet headed for the door as well, blinking when it swung back in her face. She shook her head, smiling, as she exited around the side of the house towards the front driveway.

She caught up to Warlock, who was standing rigidly in front of the house, watching a black car wind up the driveway. She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, squeezing a little. “Calm down,” she whispered to him. “They’ll like it, I promise.”

He nodded absently, most of his attention on the approaching car. And when Harriet looked at it properly, she could understand why.

“Holy shit,” she said, astonished. “Is that their car?”

Warlock nodded. “It was parked outside the bookshop in Soho, but I assumed it belonged to someone else.”

The vintage car screeched to a halt a few feet in front of them, gravel flying as they stepped back. A man stepped out the driver’s door, and Harriet knew him immediately. It wasn’t just Warlock’s description of him, or the sunglasses, or the tattoo that was visible when he turned to shut the car door. It was his posture, the face that she knew well, the same smile that had grinned at her from behind too many glasses of wine to count.

Anthony swaggered over – that was the only word to describe his gait – he swaggered over to them, grinning widely. “Hey, Warlock,” he said in that same voice she knew so well, if a little more gravelly. He ruffled Warlock’s hair cheerfully, snickering a bit when Warlock screwed up his face and leaned away.

Then Anthony turned his attention to her. “Hello, Harriet,” he said softly. She could feel his steady gaze through the glasses, same as ever. He put out a hand for her to shake.

She disregarded the hand entirely, pulling him into a hug. “Hi, Anthony,” she murmured into his ear.

He was stiff in her arms for a moment, then he relaxed and returned the hug. Hugging wasn’t something they had done a lot of when they previously knew each other. The last time had been on Anthony’s last day, shortly before Warlock’s eleventh birthday. He had held on to her tightly then, and when he pulled away there was an air of finality, as though he knew they would never see each other again.

This time was more relaxed, more comforting. She pulled away and smiled at him. “It’s good to see you.”

“Likewise,” he said, looking her up and down. “Nice haircut.”

She ran a hand through her hair absently. She had forgotten that it was shorter now then when she had last seen him. “Thanks.”

Another door closed, and Harriet looked back over to the car, expecting to see Brother Francis. She stopped and stared at the man who was leaning on the car, looking more than a little shaken. He made his way around the front, still keeping one hand on the bonnet for support.

He was Brother Francis, yes, but also no. He had shaved his mutton chops, and changed his wardrobe to the point of looking like an extra in Downton Abbey. Seriously, his outfit wouldn’t have been out of place a century earlier. A cream overcoat, camel-coloured waistcoat, and a tartan bowtie. Not something she would have ever seen her former gardener wearing.

Harriet forced her mouth to close, realising she was gaping at him. She watched Brother Francis – no, just Francis now – approach her with a shaky smile, and hold out a hand. “Good evening, Harriet, dear,” he said warmly.

This time she took the hand, quickly plastering her patented “politician’s wife” smile on her face to cover up her initial surprise. “Hi, Francis,” she said, shaking his hand.

Francis smiled at Warlock, who nodded back. Then he turned to Anthony. “Was that speed really necessary, my dear?”

“Of course,” Anthony said, in a voice that suggested he was insulted by the implication. “You wanted to get here early, didn’t you?”

Francis harrumphed and folded his arms, but he didn’t look serious. Harriet got the sense this was a familiar exchange between them.

“Uh, we’re eating in the dining hall, but I’m setting up in the kitchen,” she said. “Do you guys still know the way?”

“Certainly,” said Francis, and he and Anthony headed around the corner of the house towards the kitchen door. Warlock and Harriet followed, but Harriet grabbed Warlock and pulled him back until they were out of earshot of the other two.6

“What the hell?” she demanded in a whisper. “You didn’t warn me that he looked like that!”

Warlock frowned, befuddled. “I did!” he whispered back indignantly. “Skinny jeans, short hair…”

“Not Anthony! Francis! He’s dressed like he’s come from a Victorian novel. Did he look like that when you met him?”

“Oh. Yeah,” he said, deflating a little. “It slipped my mind. I was so worried that you wouldn’t know Anthony…”

She nodded, and squeezed his shoulder. “I understand.”

They went inside together.

* * *

* * *

1\. A wine glass that hadn’t been there a moment earlier, not that Harriet was in any fit state to notice such discrepancies.Return to text

2\. Hari was a security agent who was convinced that he was too good at his job to be assigned the school run. He was probably right.Return to text

3\. Less of a coincidence, more of a demonic miracle.Return to text

4\. Witnesses would later swear that the Mary Poppins-esque nanny had been on the other side of the road less than a second before she grabbed the Dowling boy out of the arms of his would-be abductor. But that would be impossible, they would tell themselves. No human could possibly move that fast.Return to text

5\. It was true that the other man had tripped over. What she had declined to mention was the fact that he tripped over a large stone that was very surprised to have found itself summoned from the edge of the English Channel, to sit in the middle of a suburban footpath. It was even more surprised to find itself back in its spot on the beach, less than a second after it had fulfilled its purpose of making the kidnapper trip up.Return to text

6\. At least, they would have been out of earshot if the other two in question had been human.Return to text

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's more to come, I promise! This chapter was just becoming obscenely long, and I had to cut it in half and insert the scene set in 2016. I know that a chapter being too long is a rare complaint, but I do like to have some sort of cohesiveness in stories, which includes chapters of vaguely the same length.
> 
> Thank you so much to whoever recommended this story to the Aziraphale's Library blog on Tumblr. That was completely unexpected, and I'm blown away that somebody liked this story enough to rec it. Whoever you are, I love you! How does a spring wedding sound?
> 
> Also, a massive shout-out to the four people who actually emailed the addresses I used in the last chapter! That was also entirely unexpected, and I was beside myself every time a new one came. I don't know all your usernames, so I won't thank you individually here, but please know that I appreciate you guys so much. And sorry if you're waiting for a reply, I promise I'm getting to it!
> 
> Some comments in the last chapter asked about the email-windows. I got the HTML from [this tutorial](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7953412), by La_Temperanza. They've done some other good skin tutorials, some of which I hope to use later on in this story.
> 
> Okay, I'm done now. Thank you so much for reading!


	5. Dinner Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations and dinner are had. Concerns are raised. Harriet is bad at lying, except to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know that scene in the movie Hidden Figures, where Katherine's boss says something along the lines of, "If I started apologising, I'd never stop"? Well, that's me regarding the update schedule for this story.
> 
> (Sorry.)
> 
> Enjoy! I hope this chapter is worth the wait.

Inside the kitchen, Francis took an appreciative sniff of the kitchen air. “Something smells wonderful, my dear,” he told Harriet.

“Thanks,” she said, a little unnerved by his beaming smile. She didn’t remember him being this happy before. But then, she supposed, he had reason to be happy now. “Um, would you like a glass of wine while I finish off the dinner?”

“That sounds lovely,” Francis said.

“Depends,” Anthony said from behind him. “Got any white?”

She frowned for a second, then flushed when she remembered the letter she had sent, which he was referring to now. “Ah. Yes. About that…”

But he was grinning when he shook his head. “You wanted to know that Warlock was safe. I get that.”

Harriet nodded, unsure what to say. Instead, she poured them all a drink (with lemonade for Warlock, despite his hopeful expression), and they sat around the table, smiling at each other. Now they were all inside, it seemed that nobody knew where to begin.

“Nice car,” Harriet offered as an ice-breaker. “What make is it?”

“1933 Bentley,” Anthony said, a touch of pride in his voice. “Had it from new.”

Harriet laughed, but Francis shot him a reproachful look, for some reason.

“She’s a beauty,” Harriet told him, hoping that would make her sound like she knew more about cars than she did. It seemed to work, because Anthony inclined his head and smiled.

Francis put his glass delicately down on the table, looking around. “Is it the four of us for dinner, then?” he inquired.

She knew what he was really asking. “Yes. Thad’s in Washington at the moment.”

“Ah,” he said, and offered her a reassuring smile. She wasn’t sure what he had heard behind her words, but it seemed like he knew something she hadn’t told him.

Weird.

“Warlock, sweetie,” she said, moving the conversation on, “what was that plant you wanted to show Francis and Anthony? The one for the butterflies?”

“Red valerian,” Warlock said immediately. He turned to Francis. “It’s a _Cent-_ hang on, I know it… _Centranthus ruber_. I planted a couple in the garden a few weeks ago. They attract butterflies, supposedly, but I haven’t seen any yet. Do you know about them?”

Francis nodded. “I am familiar with the red valerian, yes.1 Whereabouts have you planted them?”

“In the south corner of the garden. I’m trying to set up a kind of ecosystem there, with flowers and stuff specifically to attract rare birds and insects. It’s gonna look really good when I’m finished.”

“That sounds marvellous, my boy,” Francis beamed. “I do hope you will show us some time.”

Harriet glanced at her watch. “There’s time before dinner’s ready, if you want to go now.”

Warlock turned eager eyes on the guests. “Do you want to see it?”

Anthony shook his head, not unkindly. “Plants are more Francis’ area than mine. I’ve never been good with them.”

Francis glared at him briefly, then turned an abrupt smile on Warlock. “Shall we?”

They left for the garden, leaving Anthony and Harriet behind. She smiled awkwardly at him, taking a sip of her wine. How do you start a conversation with someone you used to once confide in?

Thankfully, she didn’t need to start it. “This feels familiar,” Anthony said, pointing between them.

“It is,” she agreed.

“I used to enjoy our little chats, you know.”

“I did, too.” And it was true, she had looked forward to their casual catch-ups every few days, sitting at this very table and gossiping. Thinking of it reminded her of something she had meant to ask.

She leaned across the table conspiratorially. “So,” she said, “you and Francis. How long was that going on for?”

He took a long sip of his wine before replying. “A long time.”

“While you were working here?”

He nodded, and she clapped her hands. “I knew it!”

Anthony’s eyebrows shot up over his glasses. “You did?”

“Oh, yeah. Whenever you two were in the same space, you’d sort of…gravitate towards each other.” She made an abstract movement with her hands, trying – and failing – to depict two magnets moving together. “I knew you two liked each other, just not how serious it was.”

One eyebrow slowly lowered behind the dark lens, leaving the other stranded on his forehead. “Interesting,” he murmured, and took a sip of wine.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” she said.

He smiled, the second eyebrow relaxing. “I am,” he said, as though it was an admission. “We are.”

“One thing I don’t get, though,” she said, leaning forward again seriously. “Warlock said that you two worked for opposing religious groups, or something? Trying to spread beliefs around? Can I ask why you ended up working for us? If it’s not too personal,” she added, seeing how rigid he had gone.

Anthony stared at her for a few moments, completely unmoving. She couldn’t even see him breathing.

Then his face relaxed into a smile, and he leaned forward onto his elbows. When he spoke, there seemed to be another layer to his voice. “That doesn’t really matter, does it?” he said slowly. The words were silky and smooth, honey dripping into her ears. “It doesn’t do to dwell on the past. We want to focus on here and now, don’t we?”

He was right. Of course, he was right. Why did she care about the past? What they used to do, who they used to be, wasn’t relevant. People change. It’s who they choose to be that matters.

Harriet nodded slowly. “Here and now,” she agreed.

His grin widened. “Good,” he said, and leaned back, hooking an arm over the back of his chair. “So how’s Thaddeus?” he asked, voice back to normal.

Harriet blinked, shaking her head for a moment. She had the distinct feeling something had just happened, but she couldn’t place her finger on it. She focused back on Anthony, who was waiting for an answer to his question.

His question. What was it again?

“How’s Thaddeus?” he prompted.

“Oh, uh, he’s fine,” she said. “Probably. I wouldn’t know.”

“No?”

She shrugged. “He’s been in Washington for a few months. We haven’t spoken much.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, looking almost pitying.

“Oh, no, it’s nothing like that,” she said hastily. “We haven’t had a fight or anything. He’s just…Thad’s a busy man. His job is important. Sometimes that means he has to make sacrifices. Like not seeing his family for a bit. It’s fine.” She wasn’t sure who she was trying to convince – Anthony, or herself.

“Mm-hmm,” he said, taking a doubtful sip of wine.

Harriet sighed, and deflated a bit. She leaned her head in her hands. “It’s not fine,” she said into her palms. “Who am I kidding? He doesn’t give a shit about us. He’s flying off with Amy-”

“Amy?”

“New secretary,” she said, finally removing her hands from her face. “Sometimes I think he forgets that we exist. We’re just the people who happen to live in his house, which he occasionally deigns to visit. I know I shouldn’t complain, he looks after us, but-”

“Are you kidding?” Anthony interrupted her for a second time. “You should absolutely complain!” She frowned at him, confused, and he continued. “You’re telling me that he hasn’t been home for several months, and in all that time, even with the _many_ advancements in communication in the last decade – he _still_ hasn’t made an effort to talk to you? Not one phone call? Zoom chat? How many times has he texted you since he left?”

“Three,” she muttered, embarrassingly fast. She knew the answer, because she checked for a new text multiple times each day.

“And how many times have you texted him?”

“Twenty-one,” she admitted.

He leaned back and spread his hands wide. “There you go.”

Harriet sighed. She reached out for the wine bottle and topped up her glass. “The thing is…” She trailed off. There was a Thought she’d had a few times, but hadn’t dared to articulate to anyone else yet. She had kept the Thought locked up in her mind instead, where it would occasionally pass through her stream of consciousness and swim out the other side.

She looked at Anthony’s face, open and frank even behind his glasses, and she so wanted to tell him the Thought. But it wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be fair to Thad.

So she kept the Thought locked up in the vault where it had been for months now.

“The thing is,” she said, keeping her voice light, “I think we’re both due a top-up.” She reached for the glass of wine and poured a few drops into each of their glasses.

Anthony nodded, and took his drink, but he kept watching her. He had this expression that she remembered well, one that looked as though he was reading her soul, as though his sunglasses had X-ray vision. He had the same expression now, and she shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

“You can’t tell anyone,” she said suddenly. “About what I said before. Not even Warlock. Especially not Warlock,” she added.

“I promise.” Anthony made a motion over his heart that looked like a cross, but strangely upside-down.

“Thank you,” she told him sincerely, and she could have sworn that he flinched. But then he nodded his acceptance, and took a drink.

* * *

Meanwhile, in a bottom corner of the garden, Warlock was pointing out a pinkish-red flower to Francis. “That’s the valerian,” he said. “There are other plants that attract butterflies, but the soil here isn’t great, and this one grows really well. Some people treat it as a weed, but I think it looks good.”

Francis nodded. It did look good, and the local butterflies seemed to agree, since a few were hanging around a plant towards the back of the patch.

“And this one here,” Warlock indicated a nearby plant, with conical purple flowers, “the _Buddleia_ _davidii._ That’s good for butterflies as well, of course – it’s known as the butterfly bush – but the bees really like it as well.” He looked expectantly at Francis, eager to hear a professional’s opinion on his patch of garden.

Francis surveyed the few square metres. There was a bird bath in the centre, surrounded by shrubs filled with brightly-coloured flowers. There was a small crab apple tree, with a hanging bird feeder suspended from one of the branches. Looking back at his work, Warlock could only see where the planting was a little uneven, patches where weeds were breaking through the soil, a dead branch on the tree. But he told himself that it was only because he had worked so hard on the garden, that he could see the imperfections.

After a moment, Francis smiled. “I think it’s perfectly lovely,” he said. “You’ve done very well. I’m sure there won’t be any shortage of birds and bees to this spot, this coming summer.” 2

Warlock let out the breath he was holding, and beamed. “I’m glad you like it,” he said. “Alan – he’s the new gardener – wasn’t impressed with the valerian. But he doesn’t like sister slug either, or brother snail.”

He was aware, of course, that most people didn’t refer to animals as their brothers and sisters. It was one childhood habit that Warlock hadn’t been able to break.

“Some people don’t,” Francis nodded. “But they’re all God’s creatures, and they’re all worthy of respect. I’m glad you’ve listened to me.” He seemed rather pleased at that fact, more than Warlock would have expected. 3

He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s fair to value one life over another, that’s all.” He spotted movement in the soil, and crouched down. “Look,” he told Francis, “it’s brother worm!”

Francis knelt down beside him. They both watched as the worm wriggled around in the dirt, seemingly making its way from one plant to another.

“Warlock,” Francis said delicately, “I notice your father wasn’t able to join us for dinner.”

Warlock froze. He kept watching the worm, not looking around at Francis.

“I hope it isn’t a sensitive topic, my dear, but I wanted to check whether everything was all right?”

Warlock shifted his attention to a buddleia flower directly in front of his face. He bit his lip, trying to figure out how to word the next sentence without potentially offending anyone.

“My dad,” he began eventually, “is a bit old-fashioned. I mean, that’s what people call it when they’re being polite.” He sighed, looking at Francis. “He’s not really a fan of trans people.”

“Ah,” Francis said.

“Yeah. You know my friend, Steph? He, uh, he refuses to use her name. He calls her ‘he’, and uses her deadname. We didn’t want Anthony to have to deal with… _that_.”

Warlock went back to chewing on his lip, awaiting Francis’ reaction. Would he understand? Would he blow up? Would he insist that he and Anthony leave immediately?

Francis thought for a moment, expression carefully blank. Then he nodded, and clapped a hand on Warlock’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said, “for valuing Anthony’s feelings. That’s very kind of you.”

Warlock shook his head. “There’s a difference, between being kind and just not being a dick. The bar isn’t that low.”

Francis huffed out a laugh. “Very true, my boy,” he said, standing up. Warlock stood up too, and Francis looked him over, seemingly appraising him. “You know,” he told him, “I do believe that you’ve grown up rather well.”

He flushed under the phrase.

“Now,” Francis continued, “perhaps we should head back for the house. I have a feeling that your mother has nearly finished preparing the meal.”

He began to walk back to the house, and Warlock fell in step with him. They meandered back through the garden together, past the trees he used to climb when he was younger, past the greenhouses were Francis had shown him how seedlings first popped out of the soil, past so many memories. It felt strange, but there was a feeling of completeness as well, like something had come full circle.

As they walked, Warlock felt a strange urge well up inside him. The warm feeling he had in his chest was similar to how he had felt when he had first entered the bookshop in London, weeks earlier. And the comfort that came with it left him open, as though he wanted to spill all his secrets to Francis.

But only one bubbled up out of him, as they passed the last greenhouse. “Francis,” he began cautiously.

“Yes, my boy?”

“I think…” He stopped abruptly. Was it right to share this? But Francis was a friend, and one from an impartial perspective, at that. So he continued.

“I think my parents are gonna get a divorce,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush, tripping over themselves in their haste.

Francis didn’t say anything for a long moment. The admission hung between them as they walked silently.

Then, “What makes you say that?”

Warlock stopped walking, and Francis followed suit. They faced each other in the middle of the lawn.

“Dad’s been in Washington for the past ages, and they hardly talk. And when they do, Mom always comes away from it looking angry, or just sad, which is worse.” He wasn’t sure if it would be too personal to keep talking, but he was on a roll, and Francis looked interested, so he continued. “When he is home, they don’t sleep in the same room. Dad provides for me and Mom, I get that, and it’s not like we’re missing anything. We have money, and food, and things a lot of people don’t have. We’re lucky. But I don’t think he’s so great at husbanding, you know? If I was married, I’d spend all my time telling my wife how much I appreciated her.”

He trailed off, and looked up at Francis, waiting for his reaction.

Francis, for his part, took a few moments to consider. Then he nodded. “I can see why you’d be concerned,” he said. “It does sound as though your parents’ relationship may be…not as strong you would hope. Have you spoken to either of you parents about the matter?”

Warlock shook his head. “I don’t want to bring it up. What if I’m completely misreading the situation? Or what if I’m not, and it just makes Mom sad to talk about it?”

He hummed thoughtfully. “That’s quite the dilemma. You’re trapped between caring for your mother, and concern for her marriage.”

Warlock nodded. “That’s about it, yeah.” He paused. “I’m not expecting you to have an answer, or anything. I just…I just wanted to say it out loud to someone, you know?”

Francis offered him a small smile. “I understand,” he assured him. “And if it would help to put your mind to rest, I will ask Anthony if he has heard anything. I’m sure he and your mother are gossiping back in the kitchen, like in old days.”

That made sense. There had been many times when a younger Warlock had gone downstairs to ‘get a drink’ (really, to delay bedtime by a few minutes at a time) and found his mother and his nanny sitting at the kitchen table, laughing and chatting about something or other.

“For now,” Francis continued, “I would suggest that we continue back there, now. Surely they will have finished their conversation by now, and I confess, I’m feeling rather hungry myself.” He winked at Warlock, who grinned, and they continued across the lawn back to the house.

Sure enough, they arrived back at the kitchen door as Harriet was getting ready to dish the meal up onto the fancy plates. “Could you take our guests through to the dining room, Warlock, honey?” she asked him, carrying a heavy pot over from the stove.

“Sure thing,” he said, and opened the door from the kitchen to the dining room. “After you,” he ushered Francis and Anthony through.

A few minutes later, they were all sitting down one end of the long dining table. Anthony and Warlock sat next to each other, opposite Harriet and Francis. There were several candelabras down the length of the table, but only the one between them was lit. In front of each of them sat a plate of polenta with mushroom ragout, expertly prepared by Tamara, and passably plated by Harriet.

Harriet smiled at her guests. “Shall we say a blessing?” she asked.

Anthony jolted as though shocked, and stared at Francis, who cleared his throat. “Oh, yes. I could do that, it you like,” he offered.

“Great,” she smiled at him, and reached out for his hand. Across the table, Warlock took Anthony’s hand, and closed his eyes.

Francis cleared his throat. “Right. Er, thank you for this meal, which we are about to receive. May you, er, bless this meal, and hold us in your heart. Amen.” 4

“Amen,” came two replies, and all eyes opened.

They started their meals, and Francis made an appreciative noise. “This is marvellous, my dear,” he told Harriet.

Anthony nodded. “It is good. Give Tamara my compliments.”

“ _Crowley!_ ” Francis admonished him quickly.

“No, it’s fine. He’s right,” Harriet admitted. “I didn’t, strictly speaking, make this meal. But I did dish it up!” she added, as though it made any difference.

“Ah,” Francis said. “Well, then, if you could also pass my own compliments to Tamara?”

“Of course,” she told him, then looked at Anthony, who was grinning at her. “Was it really that obvious?”

Anthony didn’t reply, just gave an exaggerated wink from behind his sunglasses.

Warlock was looking between the two of them anxiously, but at the sight of the wink, he relaxed a little. He took a big bite of polenta, starting to smile. Maybe, just maybe, he had set up a successful dinner party. But he wasn’t going to count his chickens just yet. They still had dessert to get through.

After a slightly awkward start, the conversation flowed freely. They had five years to catch up on, and a lot had happened in that time. Francis eagerly spoke about the bookshop – an old family business, he said, which he had recently inherited – and his passion for restoring old books. Warlock spoke about the conservation efforts for pandas, which he had been researching lately for a school assignment. Harriet told them all about a new author she had recently discovered, and his books about a world that was pulled through space on the back of a giant turtle (they collectively decided that this was a more likely reality than a flat earth). Anthony didn’t contribute any stories to the discussion, but still seemed to enjoy himself, listening to others and interjecting where appropriate.

Later on, they had retired into the parlour for cups of coffee (hot chocolate for Warlock). Francis had just finished regaling them with the story of correspondence he was having with someone called Mr. Star, who was insistent that he should stock an infamous biography of the band Duran Duran, despite being told multiple times that no such book was available.

Harriet happened to glance at her watch, and realised that it was half past eleven. “Wow,” she said. “We’ve been here way longer than I thought.”

“I’m terribly sorry, my dear, we seem to have overstayed our welcome,” Francis said, getting up.

“Not at all,” she insisted, but found herself fighting back a yawn.

Anthony stood up as well, shooting her and Warlock both a smile. “It’s been good, seeing you both again.”

“Likewise,” Harriet told him.

Warlock stifled a large yawn, nodding in agreement. “Thanks for coming, guys.”

“Thank _you_ for the invitation,” Francis said.

They all made their way out to the vintage car on the driveway. “Are you gonna be alright to drive back to London?” Harriet asked Antony quietly. “It’s very late. We have a spare room, if you need it.”

“It’ll be fine,” he assured her.

They hugged, and then he got in the car. He tapped on the steering wheel, waiting for Francis to get in.

Francis also gave Harriet a hug, and clapped Warlock on the shoulder. Then he too slipped into the car, and they were away, screaming down the driveway and off into the night.

Harriet put her arm around Warlock’s shoulders, and they made their way up the steps and into the house.

She felt suddenly exhausted, despite having been wide awake only a few minutes earlier. She sent Warlock to bed, and made an executive decision that the dishes could wait for the morning, before going to bed herself.

It had been a long day.

* * *

* * *

1\. He neglected to mention that, not being a real gardener, he had never encountered such a plant in the flesh; but had rather seen pictures in the pages of the one botanical encyclopaedia he consulted before applying for the position of the Dowlings’ gardener.Return to text

2\. A minor miracle, barely enough to register as a blip on anyone’s radar, ensured that this would be true.Return to text

3\. Aziraphale was feeling particularly smug at the thought of telling Crowley that he had won this particular point.Return to text

4\. Throughout the halting speech, Aziraphale was making sure to not mention the Almighty by name, and to concentrate only on the meals in front of Warlock, Harriet, and himself. After all, it wouldn’t do to poison Crowley by blessing his food.Return to text


	6. Interlude 1 - in the Bentley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation on the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! I'm trying something a little different with the format for this chapter, because it's apart from the main narrative, but contains some information I think is important to the story.

Well, that was perfectly lovely! Don’t you think so, Crowley?

Hm? Yeah, it was alright.

All right?

Fine. It was fun.

See, I told you that we would enjoy it!

Hmm.

Is this a thing we’re doing now, then?

What do you mean?

You know. Going to dinner parties. Like people do with their friends.

They are our friends!

They—

Keep your eyes on the road!

It’s fine, angel. I know what I’m doing.

That lorry certainly did not!

They think we are, anyway. The Dowlings.

How can you say they aren’t our friends? We lived with them for nearly six years.

That’s not what I…guh.

Well? What did you “guh,” as you so eloquently put it?

Just that…Look, I had to put the whammy on Harriet earlier.

Oh, Crowley, you—

Only a little, angel, nothing that’ll affect her brain. Probably. She was asking about what we were doing before we worked for them.

Oh.

Yup.

Oh, dear.

The same stuff Warlock was asking you, mostly. It was getting complicated, so I just…persuaded her not to worry about it.

I see.

You’d have done the same thing.

I hardly think that’s fair to say, when I wasn’t in that pos—

Need I remind you of that nun in 1639?

…

Or that poor waiter, when was it? 1984?

…

Or the--

Point taken.

…

…

So how was the garden?

Rather beautiful, actually. The boy has a head for nature. I rather like to think that was my influence paying off, there.

Please, angel, you couldn’t look after a cactus.

Excuse you, I most certainly could.

Prove it.

What?

I have a rare succulent in my collection. Keep it alive for a year, and I’ll believe you.

All right, I will.

Right.

I _will_. You’ll see.

I look forward to it.

Hmm.

…

You know, when we were returning to the house, Warlock confided something in me.

Oh?

He’s concerned that his parents are divorcing.

Oh.

I wondered if Harriet had mentioned anything to you of the sort? Perhaps when she was under your…you know.

My “you know”?

Your…

Why are you wiggling your fingers like that? Oh, Satan, you’re not going in for the magic tricks again, are you?

Certainly not. And if I were, I wouldn’t be telling you.

What are you talking about, then?

Your wiles.

My wiles?

You said it yourself, before. You put “the whammy” on dear Harriet.

Wiles? Really?

Oh, for—

Did she mention anything of the sort to you?

She did actually, yeah.

Yes?

Yes, I turned on my sparkling wiles and she spilled everything. I also know about her plan to rob a bank next month.

If you’re just going to make fun of me, then—

Thaddeus Dowling is neglecting his marriage.

Oh, dear.

Harriet’s doing all the legwork, and then some. I give it a year, two at most, before they split. And since you asked, no, she wasn’t influenced by my “wiles”. She told me this freely, because I was her friend.

You admit, then, that she is your friend?

Of course she is! But how many humans have you made friends with? Sixty centuries, that’s a lot of people to lose.

I see.

When we met Warlock and Harriet - and Thaddeus, I suppose - there was an end, right? An expiry date. The apocalypse. But that came and went, and now it’s indefinite.

Do you not wish to continue our acquaintance with them, then?

I don’t…ngk…I’m not saying that. But there’s more to consider now, right?

Certainly.

For one, we look older than both of them. It won’t be believable if we’re around until Warlock’s old age.

We’ll have to alter our appearances, to look as though we’re aging. But we both have experience with that.

And you’ll have to find another outfit to wear sometime, no human wears the same clothes every day unless they’re a cartoon character.

You’re one to talk. You’ve been in that get-up since the nineties, at least.

Didn’t know you’d noticed.

So you do want to stay in touch, then?

…

…

Harriet’s gonna want someone outside of the household to talk to, if this thing goes ahead.

And Warlock will require guidance, I am sure.

It sounds like we’re committed to it, then.

Excellent.

But we have to let them figure it out, right? No nudging in either direction. Just support.

Naturally. And I have to think of a name.

Name?

For the succulent, dear.

No, no, no.

How about Arthur? I’ve always thought that was a strong name.

You’re not naming my plant.

If you’re giving it to me, then it’s my plant. How about Harold?

No, this is not happening. Nope. Nope.

Elizabeth?

Bentley, back me up.

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no! Oh mamma mia, mamma mia, mamma mia, let me go!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a departure here from the normal format, let me know what you think? I toyed with the idea of colouring the dialogue but it got rather time-consuming, however if anyone thinks it'd be easier to read, I'd be happy to try it again. Thanks for reading!


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